sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:34 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:34 am
Entry tags:
The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Four
Title: The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Four: Dreaming Life
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, and some brief sexuality (don't get excited, it's canonical :P).
Summary: Peter meets Hiro, Matt has qualms, Nathan takes the evening off, Claude dreams of the past, and Sylar comes up against cold, hard reality.
Notes: Thanks to my betas, Simon and Heidi, for pointing out that Nathan would not say "awesome" and Peter had never, in fact, met Hiro in his present-day incarnation. Also thanks and credit to Utility Knife for some amazing artwork, saving me from a life of shoddy manips; if you'd like to give feedback on the art, the address to send to is utility.knife@gmail.com.
Originally posted 3.18.07
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
PETER, HIRO, AND ANDO - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"PETER PETRELLI!"
Peter, who was headed for Nathan's office and in a hurry to catch him before he left for the day, nearly bumped into Ando, who were handing out flyers outside the door. There was another Japanese man with him, whom Peter half-recognised as the man from the subway.
Hiro Nakamura.
"Vote Petrelli," Hiro said, smiling at a pretty redheaded woman as she took one of his handbills. "Vote for Nasan Petrelli!"
Ando grabbed the other man's sleeve and dragged him forward until both of them were standing in front of Peter.
"Peter Petrelli," Ando said to Hiro, who bowed. Peter bowed back. Then, inexplicably, Hiro darted forward and hugged him, trapping Peter's arms against his sides. Peter raised an eyebrow at Ando, who helped disentangle them.
"I am glad to see you," Hiro said, beaming.
"I see that...uh, me too. What're you guys doing here?" he asked, confused. The last time he'd seen Ando, they were in Texas, in a little diner outside of the Midland airport. "Is that a -- "
"It is the sword of Kensei," Hiro said gravely, touching the strap that held the sword on. "We stole it."
"Awesome," Peter said. "Can I see?"
"Nasan Petrelli says I am not to show it off in public," Hiro recited. Peter covered his mouth, trying not to grin.
"What the hell are you doing campaigning for my brother?" he asked.
"We believe he is the man for the job," Ando replied. Peter was pretty sure the two men were making fun of him, just a little.
"You're volunteering?"
"No no, he hires us," Hiro said. "We are homeless!"
Peter rubbed the back of his head, then pulled them aside, out of the crowds. "Nathan hired you."
"Yes," Ando said.
"My brother, Nathan, hired you to hand out flyers."
"Brozerhood of heroes," Hiro replied.
"Ah, yeah, okay. So -- you work for the family now," Peter said, formulating a plan. "Listen, you know me and Nathan, we're like this," he said, holding up crossed fingers. "I need your help. Something much more important than flyers. Big chance to be a real hero."
Hiro's eyes widened. "What is it?"
"I need you to guard someone for me."
***
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TEXAS
There's no other way, Bennett said, after Matt had been silent for about forty minutes.
Funny how you keep saying that, Matt replied. Seems like I hear that every time you want to do something your way.
A hint of impatience tinged Bennett's tone. I know this place, I've worked here for years. You have to trust me.
Maybe they're trying to get us to work together, you ever think of that? Matt asked. Maybe they're waiting for us to try to escape. They put us together, in the first two empty cells --
As per standard Company procedure, Bennett retorted.
I don't want to die in Texas, Matt said.
Oh, what they're going to do to us is much worse than dying, Bennett said. Me because I betrayed the company. You because you're different. They'll want to know what makes you tick.
Matt sat in silence for another ten minutes.
You're sure it'll work? he asked.
No. If you wanted guarantees, you should have stayed in Los Angeles, Bennett replied.
***
THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC
"Nathan? You're quiet tonight."
Nathan looked up and smiled at his wife, trying to be reassuring. He was a good liar, but it was hard with Heidi. She didn't really want anything except honesty, and since the accident...
"Lot on my mind," he said, taking another bite of salad.
"Your meeting with Linderman?" Heidi asked. "Sweetie, stab your peas, don't scoop them."
The last was directed at their older son, who grinned at his parents and went right on shoving peas onto a spoon with his finger.
"Couple of meetings lately, yeah," Nathan murmured.
"Anything you want to talk about?" Heidi asked. Nathan studied his sons, thinking.
It occurred to him that if his daughter was like Peter -- like him -- then his sons might be also. Claire had said some very enlightening things about her birth-mother, among them the fact that of Nathan's hundred thousand, only twenty-five was promised to his actual blood relation. She'd also said her mother could start fires, which made a few odd incidents in Nathan's early life make much more sense. As far as he knew, Heidi couldn't fly or set things on fire or talk to animals or whatever, but then would she tell him if she could?
His sons were charming children, bright and rambunctious, ordinary and perhaps just a little bit vicious, like he was. He had thought when he had a second son that he would see himself and Peter all over again, but the quiet strangeness that Peter had possessed as a child was nowhere to be found in Nathan Petrelli's sons.
He sensed it in Claire, though. Not the quiet, perhaps. She wasn't very quiet. But that alien self-containment, the disinterest in -- in power, in playing the goddamn game -- all the things that had perplexed Nathan about Peter were present in Claire, and he began to realise that perhaps to Heidi and his sons and his mother he seemed like an alien too. Would his boys turn that way, if they turned out to be special too? Would he spend the rest of his life watching and worrying that they would?
Was he just slightly disappointed that he didn't see it in them now?
"Honey?"
Nathan looked away from the boys. "Sorry, what?"
Heidi laughed. "I asked if there was anything you wanted to talk about."
"I think I'm tired," he said.
"I'm not surprised."
"You know what I'd really like?" he said suddenly, setting down his fork.
"What's that?" Heidi asked, looking slightly anxious.
"I'd like to play legos with the boys. You too, we'll get out that huge chest of legos from when Peter and I were kids and dump it out on the table and build something huge," he said. "What do you say, boys?"
His sons cheered, flinging peas about in the process, and when Nathan looked at Heidi she was -- smiling. The smile he'd spent months pining after in law school, the real Heidi smile. Not a trace of accusation or disappointment.
As if he'd done something she'd been hoping for. Something right, for once.
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNETT - NYC
"So this...Suresh," Claire said, around a mouthful of pizza. "He knows why we're like this? Different?"
"More than that," Peter replied, sketching figures in the air with a bit of crust. He'd picked up a pizza on his way to the safe-house, reckoning that Nathan had probably not had the presence of mind to think about things like dinner. Turned out he was right; there was food in the kitchen, but nobody had bothered to sit Claire down and tell her to eat. Once he did, she'd eaten like half the pizza, which just went to show she really was a Petrelli.
"He did something, or maybe his dad did," Peter said, sipping his beer. Claire toyed with the bottle of Coke he'd brought her. "His dad wrote a whole book about it, about how evolution might be responsible -- "
"Activating Evolution?" Claire asked suddenly. Peter stared at her.
"How did you know that?"
"A...friend of mine gave me a copy," she said.
"So you've read it?"
"Yeah -- I didn't look at the author..."
"That's Mohinder's dad. Anyway, before Sylar got to him, he was working on a way to help us." Peter lowered his voice, glancing at the doorway. Nathan's cop friend had left a two-man security detail, one on the front door of the apartment and one in a car downstairs. Peter didn't like having someone else around, and anyway it wouldn't stop Sylar if he found them, but he didn't want to have another fight with Nathan right now. He slid around the table until the kitchen counter blocked their guard's view, then reached into his coat pocket and took out the flash drive, setting it on the table.
"That's all the information from his laptop, all they could recover," he said softly. "I think that's what Sylar was after."
Claire touched the drive as if she thought it might explode. "What is it?"
"I haven't looked yet," Peter replied. "Part of it's a list, a list of people like us. I don't know what's safe to open. I'm going to take it to the public library tomorrow, open it there. That way we only fry government property if something goes wrong," he added with a grin.
Claire looked at him with a peculiar expression that he couldn't place; she did have a sweet smile.
"What do I do? Hide out here?" she asked, turning away. Peter reached across the table for his beer and took another sip, contemplating whether he wanted the last slice of pizza or not.
"I guess so. I talked to the guys, I can come and go, but Nathan thinks you should stay. Listen, if you need anything, I can get it tomorrow..."
"Not much," she shrugged. "Hairbrush would be nice."
He grinned. "Sure thing. Are you, like...okay with all this?"
"Haven't got a choice. I mean, I had to leave Texas. And at least I'm here with you, you know? Instead of in Brazil or something."
"Brazil could be nice," Peter said absently.
***
SYLAR - NYC
It had taken longer than Sylar thought it would to find Suresh. It was hard to get information out of people when you couldn't just threaten to kill them. He'd finally taken to posing as Mohinder's brother, which was a long shot, but eventually it worked. By the time night fell, he had a hospital and a room number, which meant he had a target.
It was after visiting hours, but if you walked into a hospital looking like you knew what you were doing, people often didn't bother trying to stop you. He could hear the buzz and clatter of security radios on Suresh's floor, but if he took them one at a time he could probably work his way down to his goal. It would take time, but Sylar had time. Besides, he didn't want to kill Suresh; he wanted some quality time with him. He wanted the list.
As he listened, crouched in the stairwell, he heard something else, too. Two men, speaking some foreign language -- sounded like Chinese or something.
He opened the stairwell door a crack and peered through. There they were, two Asian guys, standing outside the room he wanted into. One of them had a sword.
A sword? Seriously?
He weighed his rage at Suresh against his natural sense of caution. A guy with a sword meant that someone else was watching over Suresh -- Petrelli, or the man who'd come to Petrelli's rescue. Which might, in fact, mean that these two men were special also. And that meant they were prey.
Sylar smiled.
***
NATHAN AND HEIDI PETRELLI - NYC
Nathan's fingertips were sore and three of his fingernails were broken from those damn Legos, but the boys had gone to bed quietly and now he lay in bed with Heidi, one arm across her hip, his face pressed into her sweet-smelling hair.
"Nathan," she said quietly, as he was drifting off to sleep.
"Mmmh?" he asked.
"You know I love you, sweetheart."
"Love you too," he mumbled.
"And I'll love you whether you win or not."
"Mmhm."
"I wonder if you do know that," she whispered, but Nathan -- who would have liked to reply -- was sinking too quickly into sleep to answer her.
***
All across the city, they sleep. As darkness spreads westward, they sleep -- so many thousands, millions of people. Some are awake, wandering in the cold and dark, some drink in the bars, some work in the offices, but mostly they sleep. They dream.
So many dreams.
Claire dreams of the airplane, dreams she is back on the airplane, flying to New York alone, looking for Peter. Peter himself, restless and uneasy, dreams of Sylar and wakes frequently to check the locks on the windows, on the doors.
Micah dreams of Uluru, the monster from his comic books, and wakes to crawl into the hotel-room bed between his parents. Sleepy, his mother cradles his head against her hip.
When he sleeps, Jack will dream of the Ouroboros incomplete, the self-devouring snake unwinding into a strange and sinuous curve, its stripes an oddly familiar pattern. Isaac, though he does not sleep, will see it also.
In his dreams Nathan is making love to Heidi, her bare skin perfect and unblemished, still sensitive under his touch, and soon he will wake to slip away without rousing her.
There are children in Matt's dreams, children he must protect and can't, because they've taken away his badge. No matter how hard he looks, he can't find it.
Mohinder Suresh -- perhaps it is best not to inquire too closely into what he dreams, or whether he is still capable.
Curled on a padded pallet in an abandoned building, in a dark corner made personal only by books on a haphazard shelf and a table covered in odds and ends stolen like a magpie, a man who used to have a name dreams of history.
***
CLAUDE RAINS AND THE BENNETT FAMILY - ODESSA, TEXAS
TEN YEARS AGO
"Don' touch it!" Claude says, laughing and shoving wee Lyle away gently. "It's hot!"
"Hot! Don't touch it!" Lyle repeats solemnly to Claire.
"Where do the fries go?" Claire asks, peering at the large, gleaming white machine on the patio table.
"Not fries. Chips," Claude corrects.
"Those are fries," Claire insists.
"Not where I'm from."
"Then what do they call chips where you're from?"
"Crisps," Claude replies, chopping up the fish into strips, sliding the knife effortlessly through the filleted flesh to make them extra-thin, fast-cooking. It's hard to get good quality fish in West Texas, but Claude has his ways.
"Are they pesterin' you?" Mrs. Bennett calls, seated nearby on the bench-swing. It is spring in Odessa, and the truly horrifying heat of summer has yet to set in. Besides, it's better to fry fish outside; doesn't make the house smell. The sun is setting low over the flat green hills, turning the light soft and golden.
"I'm not fussed," Claude answers, lifting the fish off the chopping board and dredging them in flour before dropping them into the bowl of batter. He winks at Claire. "Awfully nosy, they are."
"It's just so sweet, you cookin' for us," Mrs. Bennett continues, sipping an iced tea. "We about never use the fryer, even for french fries."
So many words he had to get used to, in America; fries for chips, chips for crisps, and all those missing letters in the spelling. Claude still turns in his reports with colour, kerb, and paediatrician. He's still trying to explain the difference between Jam and Jelly to Bennett, as well.
"S'my pleasure," he answers Mrs. Bennett, and it is. Claude doesn't have any family, at least not any he'd admit to, and he's a long way from home. Mrs. Bennett is kind to a stranger in a strange land.
He'll always be a stranger, no matter how long he lives in America. That's just the way life is.
"Can I drop one in?" Claire asks.
"Nope," Claude says cheerfully, cutting open the bag of frozen chips. Fries. Whatever. "Too dangerous, lit'le one."
Claire looks disappointed, peering into the bowl of batter while Claude pours the chips into one of the baskets. Bennett, like a good Texan, has a double-pot frydaddy, which is a long stride from the saucepan of chip-oil that Claude is used to. Still, fish and chips is fish and chips, no matter how fancy your machinery is.
"Tell you what," Claude says, "If you're very careful I'll lift you up and you can put just one in, right?"
Claire gasps excitedly.
"But I want you to watch first and see what happens when the chips go in," he adds, holding up the first basket. She nods and watches from a safe distance as he lowers the basket into the hot oil. It sputters and spits and bubbles before he slams the lid down. Both Claire and Lyle have eyes like saucers.
"Still want to try?" he asks, grinning wickedly at Claire, expecting her to squeak and run off. Instead she grins back and nods, smoothing out her shirt nervously with her hands. "Right then..."
He sets the empty second basket in the oil and dumps the mess of battered fish out onto a plate. "Lift it up by one end and lower it in slowly, then let go when I say," he says, picking her up around the waist and standing her on the bench in front of the table. He holds tightly to her waist, knowing that if Claire gets burned, Mrs. Bennett will gut him and use his bollocks for earrings.
He hands her one fillet by an edge, holding her small fingers in his as she lowers it. She flinches when the oil begins to bubble and foam, but when he squeezes her wrist she drops it and watches in fascination as it begins to fry. Claude, without letting her go, slides the rest of the battered fish into the basket and closes the lid.
"Daddy!" Claire calls. "I did it!"
"Did what, sweetie?" Bennett calls, without looking up from his book. Claude sighs, just a little.
"I fried a fish!"
"That's nice, Claire-bear."
Claude can feel Claire's disappointment, and not simply because he's been working with a telepath. She looks down at the fryer to hide it, even as Lyle runs off to pester his mother.
"That was fantastic," he tells her, picking her up again and setting her on the ground. "Now, go get your uncle Claude a drink."
Claire laughs -- children are so easily restored -- and runs to the cooler, picking out a cola for herself and dutifully bringing him a bottle of beer. Claude settles into a chair next to Bennett, stretching his legs and relaxing. Cutie-Pie, Mrs. Bennett's latest show Pomeranian, nips his fingers where they hang down past the armrest of the chair.
He understands better now how Bennett differentiates himself from the job. Here, in this grassy yard, with this well-kept house, two beautiful children and an affectionate wife, Bennett lives in another world. How difficult can it be to forget what you've seen and done, when this is waiting for you when you leave work every day?
Claude doesn't know which way is better, his or Bennett's. He knows that he can't live his way forever, but he doesn't think he can bury it in a family and a pretty house like Bennett does, either.
Still, for tonight -- with Claire and Lyle chasing ladybugs in the grass, Cutie-Pie chasing Claire and Lyle, the Bennetts chatting idly about the weather -- Claude is content.
He will wake up in a few minutes, in the darkness of the New York City warehouse, in the life he chose when he could have had that golden-green yard in Odessa. And when he wakes, the smell of cut grass and frying fish still in his nostrils, his consolations will be that Peter needs him, and Claire found him -- doesn't matter that she doesn't know him. Claire is here, and she needs him too.
He still won't know which he would choose, the dream to cover the guilt or the clean-conscienced nightmare, but he will know which one he did choose. Claire, Peter and his oiksome older brother, even the Haitian...they aren't too bad, as consolations go.
***
Ando and Hiro, true to the duties, do not sleep. They stand watch.
***
SYLAR, ANDO, HIRO, AND MOHINDER - NYC
Ando and Hiro became friends because they always had something to talk about, even when they were ordinary. After coming to America they had a secret together, that neither of them were ordinary, and sometimes they didn't even need to talk at all. They still did, though, all the time, even when it was something stupid like the old argument about whether Spiderman or Wolverine would win the Tokyo Marathon. Lately they'd branched out into who would score higher in an olympic gymnastics competition.
Well, just arguing about who would win in a flat-out bareknuckle fight was boring.
As the orderly came in to fiddle with Mohinder's machines, Hiro was explaining in detail just why it was illegal for Wolverine to use his blades while Spiderman could use his webbing. He turned automatically to watch the orderly through the doorway window, and when the man pulled the curtains tight around the bed in the semiprivate room he frowned.
"Why'd he do that?" he asked Ando, pointing. Ando cocked his head and peered through the window.
"Spongebath?" he asked.
"At ten o'clock at night?" Hiro said. He pushed the door open, putting his head inside.
"Hello?" he called. "Is Mr. Mohinder o-kay?"
The man behind the curtain kept moving. Ando touched Hiro's shoulder, then pushed past him into the room.
"What are you doing to Mr. Mohinder?" he asked.
No answer. Ando pulled the curtain back.
The orderly, a dark-haired, dark-browed man, looked up at him and smiled.
The door slammed shut and the lock clicked, barricading Hiro outside. Ando flinched.
"I was just curious what was in that head of his," the man said in a low, smug voice. "Literally."
"Sylar," Ando breathed.
"I'd be just as happy to look into yours," Sylar said. Ando reached for the pistol still in his pocket, but his hand wouldn't move past the grip. Sylar circled him. Ando heard Hiro banging on the door.
"I wonder how you're special," Sylar murmured. "Are you on the list?"
Ando was becoming used to Hiro's abilities and he actually noticed the blip -- the odd, off-centre jerk in his vision -- that signalled a stop in time. His heart rate slowed, and he relaxed his arm. The banging on the door stopped immediately.
"Won't it taste good?" Sylar added, and went to move a step forward.
And fell.
Ando saw Hiro in the room, behind the curtain, out of the corner of his eye. The sword of Kensei was drawn, and in his other hand was Ando's pistol.
"The safety's still on," Ando said. He was still looking at the gun when he saw the safety flick off. Hiro's other hand had moved slightly. This was useful.
"I tied his shoelaces. Very effective," Hiro replied. Ando was opening his mouth to say that Sylar wouldn't stay down for long when the man at their feet shot upright. Hiro fired the gun and both men saw the bullet stop in front of Sylar's nose. Hiro fired again and this one hit him, but he shoved Ando backwards into the wall (without even touching him) so hard that Ando saw stars. Hiro's gun hand lifted to his own head.
Ando watched as Hiro brought the sword around and pressed it to the side of Sylar's throat.
"You do not control the sword of Kensei," Hiro said. "If I fire, you will die when I do."
The tableau they made was strange -- Hiro with the gun pressed to his own head, Sylar with the long, sharp blade of the sword sliding down his throat. Ando tried to get up, staggered, and fell again.
"You can leave," Hiro continued. "And I will let you live. For now."
Sylar licked his lips. His eyes darted towards the door. Hiro shifted his grip, and the sword ran sharp along the skin on the other side of Sylar's neck. It didn't quite draw blood.
The dark-haired man bolted, and Hiro lifted the gun just in time for it to fire into the ceiling, sparking off a metal strut and knocking plaster all over. There was a crash of glass as Sylar went through the window. And --
And flew away.
Hiro helped Ando up, supporting him when the world dipped and spun.
"That man is evil," Hiro said. "We looked at pure evil."
"And you tied his shoelaces together," Ando said. He looked around, feeling a little steadier on his feet. The plaster that had fallen from the ceiling was nowhere to be found; the smell of gunpowder had cleared from the air. He didn't know why Hiro would bother, until a nurse burst into the room.
"Did you fire a gun?" she demanded, looking wildly around the room.
"No no. Bad man come in," Hiro said. Ando could hear him intentionally breaking up his English. "He jump out window! Crazy man! Velly bad man!"
Ando wept mentally for the dignity of his race.
"He went out the window?" she asked, horrified. She ran for the nurse's station and began dialling the phone, frantically.
"We should go," Hiro said under his breath, sheathing his sword. Ando wasn't sure what had become of the pistol, and didn't think he should ask. The plaster was gone, but the dent in the ceiling wasn't. "The police will come."
"What about Mr. Mohinder?" Ando asked. They both turned to look at him, still peacefully unconscious on the bed. Hiro got a set, stubborn look on his face. He followed as Hiro stalked stiffly to the nurse's station.
"Secure floor!" he said, glaring at the nurse. "Mr. Mohinder very safe! Hah! Some secure floor!"
"I -- I'm sorry, Mr. Naga -- "
"Nakamura!" Hiro shouted. "This is not safe! You will put him somewhere safe! New name! Fake name! Different hospital! You will do it right now!"
"We can't -- "
"You will do this! He is friend of Peter Petrelli! He is friend of Nasan Petrelli! You know Nasan Petrelli?" Hiro asked, menacingly.
"Y -- yes of course..."
"Now!"
The police appeared then, and Ando watched in total admiration as Hiro pestered, berated, and shouted them into submission. By the time he stopped talking, Mohinder was already being wheeled to the back door, where an ambulance was going to take Melvin Smith to a different hospital.
"Should have done this at the start," Hiro grumbled, watching the ambulance pull away.
"How did you do that?" Ando asked.
"I just asked myself what father would do," Hiro replied. "Then I did it louder."
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
Next time, on Heroes ("Escape Velocity"):
"You watch for him to make a speech about union rights and values. When he does, I want you to tell your people that you think Nathan Petrelli is just what this city needs. I know you can make this happen for me."
Jack closed his eyes and found her. It wasn't even very hard. There she was. A yellow-haired girl well out of place but utterly unbreakable -- and her life was only just beginning.
"I have enough money," he replied. "I will go first to La Paz, then to Huatuleco. When I find her, I will contact you."
"My daughter is all I have left. I need to find her."
"I think it's time, Ma," Nathan said, leaning his elbows on the table. "I think you need to tell me about Dad's suicide."
"It's a list. A list of people like us. Dozens, maybe hundreds. It's why Sylar was there. Mohinder's in a coma because he wouldn't give this to him." "And you're carryin' it round New York for any pickpocket to lift."
He bent over her and before she could flinch back in surprise, he'd kissed her forehead, his cologne filling her nostrils. Then he was gone.
Chapter Five
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, and some brief sexuality (don't get excited, it's canonical :P).
Summary: Peter meets Hiro, Matt has qualms, Nathan takes the evening off, Claude dreams of the past, and Sylar comes up against cold, hard reality.
Notes: Thanks to my betas, Simon and Heidi, for pointing out that Nathan would not say "awesome" and Peter had never, in fact, met Hiro in his present-day incarnation. Also thanks and credit to Utility Knife for some amazing artwork, saving me from a life of shoddy manips; if you'd like to give feedback on the art, the address to send to is utility.knife@gmail.com.
Originally posted 3.18.07
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
PETER, HIRO, AND ANDO - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"PETER PETRELLI!"
Peter, who was headed for Nathan's office and in a hurry to catch him before he left for the day, nearly bumped into Ando, who were handing out flyers outside the door. There was another Japanese man with him, whom Peter half-recognised as the man from the subway.
Hiro Nakamura.
"Vote Petrelli," Hiro said, smiling at a pretty redheaded woman as she took one of his handbills. "Vote for Nasan Petrelli!"
Ando grabbed the other man's sleeve and dragged him forward until both of them were standing in front of Peter.
"Peter Petrelli," Ando said to Hiro, who bowed. Peter bowed back. Then, inexplicably, Hiro darted forward and hugged him, trapping Peter's arms against his sides. Peter raised an eyebrow at Ando, who helped disentangle them.
"I am glad to see you," Hiro said, beaming.
"I see that...uh, me too. What're you guys doing here?" he asked, confused. The last time he'd seen Ando, they were in Texas, in a little diner outside of the Midland airport. "Is that a -- "
"It is the sword of Kensei," Hiro said gravely, touching the strap that held the sword on. "We stole it."
"Awesome," Peter said. "Can I see?"
"Nasan Petrelli says I am not to show it off in public," Hiro recited. Peter covered his mouth, trying not to grin.
"What the hell are you doing campaigning for my brother?" he asked.
"We believe he is the man for the job," Ando replied. Peter was pretty sure the two men were making fun of him, just a little.
"You're volunteering?"
"No no, he hires us," Hiro said. "We are homeless!"
Peter rubbed the back of his head, then pulled them aside, out of the crowds. "Nathan hired you."
"Yes," Ando said.
"My brother, Nathan, hired you to hand out flyers."
"Brozerhood of heroes," Hiro replied.
"Ah, yeah, okay. So -- you work for the family now," Peter said, formulating a plan. "Listen, you know me and Nathan, we're like this," he said, holding up crossed fingers. "I need your help. Something much more important than flyers. Big chance to be a real hero."
Hiro's eyes widened. "What is it?"
"I need you to guard someone for me."
***
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TEXAS
There's no other way, Bennett said, after Matt had been silent for about forty minutes.
Funny how you keep saying that, Matt replied. Seems like I hear that every time you want to do something your way.
A hint of impatience tinged Bennett's tone. I know this place, I've worked here for years. You have to trust me.
Maybe they're trying to get us to work together, you ever think of that? Matt asked. Maybe they're waiting for us to try to escape. They put us together, in the first two empty cells --
As per standard Company procedure, Bennett retorted.
I don't want to die in Texas, Matt said.
Oh, what they're going to do to us is much worse than dying, Bennett said. Me because I betrayed the company. You because you're different. They'll want to know what makes you tick.
Matt sat in silence for another ten minutes.
You're sure it'll work? he asked.
No. If you wanted guarantees, you should have stayed in Los Angeles, Bennett replied.
***
THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC
"Nathan? You're quiet tonight."
Nathan looked up and smiled at his wife, trying to be reassuring. He was a good liar, but it was hard with Heidi. She didn't really want anything except honesty, and since the accident...
"Lot on my mind," he said, taking another bite of salad.
"Your meeting with Linderman?" Heidi asked. "Sweetie, stab your peas, don't scoop them."
The last was directed at their older son, who grinned at his parents and went right on shoving peas onto a spoon with his finger.
"Couple of meetings lately, yeah," Nathan murmured.
"Anything you want to talk about?" Heidi asked. Nathan studied his sons, thinking.
It occurred to him that if his daughter was like Peter -- like him -- then his sons might be also. Claire had said some very enlightening things about her birth-mother, among them the fact that of Nathan's hundred thousand, only twenty-five was promised to his actual blood relation. She'd also said her mother could start fires, which made a few odd incidents in Nathan's early life make much more sense. As far as he knew, Heidi couldn't fly or set things on fire or talk to animals or whatever, but then would she tell him if she could?
His sons were charming children, bright and rambunctious, ordinary and perhaps just a little bit vicious, like he was. He had thought when he had a second son that he would see himself and Peter all over again, but the quiet strangeness that Peter had possessed as a child was nowhere to be found in Nathan Petrelli's sons.
He sensed it in Claire, though. Not the quiet, perhaps. She wasn't very quiet. But that alien self-containment, the disinterest in -- in power, in playing the goddamn game -- all the things that had perplexed Nathan about Peter were present in Claire, and he began to realise that perhaps to Heidi and his sons and his mother he seemed like an alien too. Would his boys turn that way, if they turned out to be special too? Would he spend the rest of his life watching and worrying that they would?
Was he just slightly disappointed that he didn't see it in them now?
"Honey?"
Nathan looked away from the boys. "Sorry, what?"
Heidi laughed. "I asked if there was anything you wanted to talk about."
"I think I'm tired," he said.
"I'm not surprised."
"You know what I'd really like?" he said suddenly, setting down his fork.
"What's that?" Heidi asked, looking slightly anxious.
"I'd like to play legos with the boys. You too, we'll get out that huge chest of legos from when Peter and I were kids and dump it out on the table and build something huge," he said. "What do you say, boys?"
His sons cheered, flinging peas about in the process, and when Nathan looked at Heidi she was -- smiling. The smile he'd spent months pining after in law school, the real Heidi smile. Not a trace of accusation or disappointment.
As if he'd done something she'd been hoping for. Something right, for once.
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNETT - NYC
"So this...Suresh," Claire said, around a mouthful of pizza. "He knows why we're like this? Different?"
"More than that," Peter replied, sketching figures in the air with a bit of crust. He'd picked up a pizza on his way to the safe-house, reckoning that Nathan had probably not had the presence of mind to think about things like dinner. Turned out he was right; there was food in the kitchen, but nobody had bothered to sit Claire down and tell her to eat. Once he did, she'd eaten like half the pizza, which just went to show she really was a Petrelli.
"He did something, or maybe his dad did," Peter said, sipping his beer. Claire toyed with the bottle of Coke he'd brought her. "His dad wrote a whole book about it, about how evolution might be responsible -- "
"Activating Evolution?" Claire asked suddenly. Peter stared at her.
"How did you know that?"
"A...friend of mine gave me a copy," she said.
"So you've read it?"
"Yeah -- I didn't look at the author..."
"That's Mohinder's dad. Anyway, before Sylar got to him, he was working on a way to help us." Peter lowered his voice, glancing at the doorway. Nathan's cop friend had left a two-man security detail, one on the front door of the apartment and one in a car downstairs. Peter didn't like having someone else around, and anyway it wouldn't stop Sylar if he found them, but he didn't want to have another fight with Nathan right now. He slid around the table until the kitchen counter blocked their guard's view, then reached into his coat pocket and took out the flash drive, setting it on the table.
"That's all the information from his laptop, all they could recover," he said softly. "I think that's what Sylar was after."
Claire touched the drive as if she thought it might explode. "What is it?"
"I haven't looked yet," Peter replied. "Part of it's a list, a list of people like us. I don't know what's safe to open. I'm going to take it to the public library tomorrow, open it there. That way we only fry government property if something goes wrong," he added with a grin.
Claire looked at him with a peculiar expression that he couldn't place; she did have a sweet smile.
"What do I do? Hide out here?" she asked, turning away. Peter reached across the table for his beer and took another sip, contemplating whether he wanted the last slice of pizza or not.
"I guess so. I talked to the guys, I can come and go, but Nathan thinks you should stay. Listen, if you need anything, I can get it tomorrow..."
"Not much," she shrugged. "Hairbrush would be nice."
He grinned. "Sure thing. Are you, like...okay with all this?"
"Haven't got a choice. I mean, I had to leave Texas. And at least I'm here with you, you know? Instead of in Brazil or something."
"Brazil could be nice," Peter said absently.
***
SYLAR - NYC
It had taken longer than Sylar thought it would to find Suresh. It was hard to get information out of people when you couldn't just threaten to kill them. He'd finally taken to posing as Mohinder's brother, which was a long shot, but eventually it worked. By the time night fell, he had a hospital and a room number, which meant he had a target.
It was after visiting hours, but if you walked into a hospital looking like you knew what you were doing, people often didn't bother trying to stop you. He could hear the buzz and clatter of security radios on Suresh's floor, but if he took them one at a time he could probably work his way down to his goal. It would take time, but Sylar had time. Besides, he didn't want to kill Suresh; he wanted some quality time with him. He wanted the list.
As he listened, crouched in the stairwell, he heard something else, too. Two men, speaking some foreign language -- sounded like Chinese or something.
He opened the stairwell door a crack and peered through. There they were, two Asian guys, standing outside the room he wanted into. One of them had a sword.
A sword? Seriously?
He weighed his rage at Suresh against his natural sense of caution. A guy with a sword meant that someone else was watching over Suresh -- Petrelli, or the man who'd come to Petrelli's rescue. Which might, in fact, mean that these two men were special also. And that meant they were prey.
Sylar smiled.
***
NATHAN AND HEIDI PETRELLI - NYC
Nathan's fingertips were sore and three of his fingernails were broken from those damn Legos, but the boys had gone to bed quietly and now he lay in bed with Heidi, one arm across her hip, his face pressed into her sweet-smelling hair.
"Nathan," she said quietly, as he was drifting off to sleep.
"Mmmh?" he asked.
"You know I love you, sweetheart."
"Love you too," he mumbled.
"And I'll love you whether you win or not."
"Mmhm."
"I wonder if you do know that," she whispered, but Nathan -- who would have liked to reply -- was sinking too quickly into sleep to answer her.
***
All across the city, they sleep. As darkness spreads westward, they sleep -- so many thousands, millions of people. Some are awake, wandering in the cold and dark, some drink in the bars, some work in the offices, but mostly they sleep. They dream.
So many dreams.
Claire dreams of the airplane, dreams she is back on the airplane, flying to New York alone, looking for Peter. Peter himself, restless and uneasy, dreams of Sylar and wakes frequently to check the locks on the windows, on the doors.
Micah dreams of Uluru, the monster from his comic books, and wakes to crawl into the hotel-room bed between his parents. Sleepy, his mother cradles his head against her hip.
When he sleeps, Jack will dream of the Ouroboros incomplete, the self-devouring snake unwinding into a strange and sinuous curve, its stripes an oddly familiar pattern. Isaac, though he does not sleep, will see it also.
In his dreams Nathan is making love to Heidi, her bare skin perfect and unblemished, still sensitive under his touch, and soon he will wake to slip away without rousing her.
There are children in Matt's dreams, children he must protect and can't, because they've taken away his badge. No matter how hard he looks, he can't find it.
Mohinder Suresh -- perhaps it is best not to inquire too closely into what he dreams, or whether he is still capable.
Curled on a padded pallet in an abandoned building, in a dark corner made personal only by books on a haphazard shelf and a table covered in odds and ends stolen like a magpie, a man who used to have a name dreams of history.
***
CLAUDE RAINS AND THE BENNETT FAMILY - ODESSA, TEXAS
TEN YEARS AGO
"Don' touch it!" Claude says, laughing and shoving wee Lyle away gently. "It's hot!"
"Hot! Don't touch it!" Lyle repeats solemnly to Claire.
"Where do the fries go?" Claire asks, peering at the large, gleaming white machine on the patio table.
"Not fries. Chips," Claude corrects.
"Those are fries," Claire insists.
"Not where I'm from."
"Then what do they call chips where you're from?"
"Crisps," Claude replies, chopping up the fish into strips, sliding the knife effortlessly through the filleted flesh to make them extra-thin, fast-cooking. It's hard to get good quality fish in West Texas, but Claude has his ways.
"Are they pesterin' you?" Mrs. Bennett calls, seated nearby on the bench-swing. It is spring in Odessa, and the truly horrifying heat of summer has yet to set in. Besides, it's better to fry fish outside; doesn't make the house smell. The sun is setting low over the flat green hills, turning the light soft and golden.
"I'm not fussed," Claude answers, lifting the fish off the chopping board and dredging them in flour before dropping them into the bowl of batter. He winks at Claire. "Awfully nosy, they are."
"It's just so sweet, you cookin' for us," Mrs. Bennett continues, sipping an iced tea. "We about never use the fryer, even for french fries."
So many words he had to get used to, in America; fries for chips, chips for crisps, and all those missing letters in the spelling. Claude still turns in his reports with colour, kerb, and paediatrician. He's still trying to explain the difference between Jam and Jelly to Bennett, as well.
"S'my pleasure," he answers Mrs. Bennett, and it is. Claude doesn't have any family, at least not any he'd admit to, and he's a long way from home. Mrs. Bennett is kind to a stranger in a strange land.
He'll always be a stranger, no matter how long he lives in America. That's just the way life is.
"Can I drop one in?" Claire asks.
"Nope," Claude says cheerfully, cutting open the bag of frozen chips. Fries. Whatever. "Too dangerous, lit'le one."
Claire looks disappointed, peering into the bowl of batter while Claude pours the chips into one of the baskets. Bennett, like a good Texan, has a double-pot frydaddy, which is a long stride from the saucepan of chip-oil that Claude is used to. Still, fish and chips is fish and chips, no matter how fancy your machinery is.
"Tell you what," Claude says, "If you're very careful I'll lift you up and you can put just one in, right?"
Claire gasps excitedly.
"But I want you to watch first and see what happens when the chips go in," he adds, holding up the first basket. She nods and watches from a safe distance as he lowers the basket into the hot oil. It sputters and spits and bubbles before he slams the lid down. Both Claire and Lyle have eyes like saucers.
"Still want to try?" he asks, grinning wickedly at Claire, expecting her to squeak and run off. Instead she grins back and nods, smoothing out her shirt nervously with her hands. "Right then..."
He sets the empty second basket in the oil and dumps the mess of battered fish out onto a plate. "Lift it up by one end and lower it in slowly, then let go when I say," he says, picking her up around the waist and standing her on the bench in front of the table. He holds tightly to her waist, knowing that if Claire gets burned, Mrs. Bennett will gut him and use his bollocks for earrings.
He hands her one fillet by an edge, holding her small fingers in his as she lowers it. She flinches when the oil begins to bubble and foam, but when he squeezes her wrist she drops it and watches in fascination as it begins to fry. Claude, without letting her go, slides the rest of the battered fish into the basket and closes the lid.
"Daddy!" Claire calls. "I did it!"
"Did what, sweetie?" Bennett calls, without looking up from his book. Claude sighs, just a little.
"I fried a fish!"
"That's nice, Claire-bear."
Claude can feel Claire's disappointment, and not simply because he's been working with a telepath. She looks down at the fryer to hide it, even as Lyle runs off to pester his mother.
"That was fantastic," he tells her, picking her up again and setting her on the ground. "Now, go get your uncle Claude a drink."
Claire laughs -- children are so easily restored -- and runs to the cooler, picking out a cola for herself and dutifully bringing him a bottle of beer. Claude settles into a chair next to Bennett, stretching his legs and relaxing. Cutie-Pie, Mrs. Bennett's latest show Pomeranian, nips his fingers where they hang down past the armrest of the chair.
He understands better now how Bennett differentiates himself from the job. Here, in this grassy yard, with this well-kept house, two beautiful children and an affectionate wife, Bennett lives in another world. How difficult can it be to forget what you've seen and done, when this is waiting for you when you leave work every day?
Claude doesn't know which way is better, his or Bennett's. He knows that he can't live his way forever, but he doesn't think he can bury it in a family and a pretty house like Bennett does, either.
Still, for tonight -- with Claire and Lyle chasing ladybugs in the grass, Cutie-Pie chasing Claire and Lyle, the Bennetts chatting idly about the weather -- Claude is content.
He will wake up in a few minutes, in the darkness of the New York City warehouse, in the life he chose when he could have had that golden-green yard in Odessa. And when he wakes, the smell of cut grass and frying fish still in his nostrils, his consolations will be that Peter needs him, and Claire found him -- doesn't matter that she doesn't know him. Claire is here, and she needs him too.
He still won't know which he would choose, the dream to cover the guilt or the clean-conscienced nightmare, but he will know which one he did choose. Claire, Peter and his oiksome older brother, even the Haitian...they aren't too bad, as consolations go.
***
Ando and Hiro, true to the duties, do not sleep. They stand watch.
***
SYLAR, ANDO, HIRO, AND MOHINDER - NYC
Ando and Hiro became friends because they always had something to talk about, even when they were ordinary. After coming to America they had a secret together, that neither of them were ordinary, and sometimes they didn't even need to talk at all. They still did, though, all the time, even when it was something stupid like the old argument about whether Spiderman or Wolverine would win the Tokyo Marathon. Lately they'd branched out into who would score higher in an olympic gymnastics competition.
Well, just arguing about who would win in a flat-out bareknuckle fight was boring.
As the orderly came in to fiddle with Mohinder's machines, Hiro was explaining in detail just why it was illegal for Wolverine to use his blades while Spiderman could use his webbing. He turned automatically to watch the orderly through the doorway window, and when the man pulled the curtains tight around the bed in the semiprivate room he frowned.
"Why'd he do that?" he asked Ando, pointing. Ando cocked his head and peered through the window.
"Spongebath?" he asked.
"At ten o'clock at night?" Hiro said. He pushed the door open, putting his head inside.
"Hello?" he called. "Is Mr. Mohinder o-kay?"
The man behind the curtain kept moving. Ando touched Hiro's shoulder, then pushed past him into the room.
"What are you doing to Mr. Mohinder?" he asked.
No answer. Ando pulled the curtain back.
The orderly, a dark-haired, dark-browed man, looked up at him and smiled.
The door slammed shut and the lock clicked, barricading Hiro outside. Ando flinched.
"I was just curious what was in that head of his," the man said in a low, smug voice. "Literally."
"Sylar," Ando breathed.
"I'd be just as happy to look into yours," Sylar said. Ando reached for the pistol still in his pocket, but his hand wouldn't move past the grip. Sylar circled him. Ando heard Hiro banging on the door.
"I wonder how you're special," Sylar murmured. "Are you on the list?"
Ando was becoming used to Hiro's abilities and he actually noticed the blip -- the odd, off-centre jerk in his vision -- that signalled a stop in time. His heart rate slowed, and he relaxed his arm. The banging on the door stopped immediately.
"Won't it taste good?" Sylar added, and went to move a step forward.
And fell.
Ando saw Hiro in the room, behind the curtain, out of the corner of his eye. The sword of Kensei was drawn, and in his other hand was Ando's pistol.
"The safety's still on," Ando said. He was still looking at the gun when he saw the safety flick off. Hiro's other hand had moved slightly. This was useful.
"I tied his shoelaces. Very effective," Hiro replied. Ando was opening his mouth to say that Sylar wouldn't stay down for long when the man at their feet shot upright. Hiro fired the gun and both men saw the bullet stop in front of Sylar's nose. Hiro fired again and this one hit him, but he shoved Ando backwards into the wall (without even touching him) so hard that Ando saw stars. Hiro's gun hand lifted to his own head.
Ando watched as Hiro brought the sword around and pressed it to the side of Sylar's throat.
"You do not control the sword of Kensei," Hiro said. "If I fire, you will die when I do."
The tableau they made was strange -- Hiro with the gun pressed to his own head, Sylar with the long, sharp blade of the sword sliding down his throat. Ando tried to get up, staggered, and fell again.
"You can leave," Hiro continued. "And I will let you live. For now."
Sylar licked his lips. His eyes darted towards the door. Hiro shifted his grip, and the sword ran sharp along the skin on the other side of Sylar's neck. It didn't quite draw blood.
The dark-haired man bolted, and Hiro lifted the gun just in time for it to fire into the ceiling, sparking off a metal strut and knocking plaster all over. There was a crash of glass as Sylar went through the window. And --
And flew away.
Hiro helped Ando up, supporting him when the world dipped and spun.
"That man is evil," Hiro said. "We looked at pure evil."
"And you tied his shoelaces together," Ando said. He looked around, feeling a little steadier on his feet. The plaster that had fallen from the ceiling was nowhere to be found; the smell of gunpowder had cleared from the air. He didn't know why Hiro would bother, until a nurse burst into the room.
"Did you fire a gun?" she demanded, looking wildly around the room.
"No no. Bad man come in," Hiro said. Ando could hear him intentionally breaking up his English. "He jump out window! Crazy man! Velly bad man!"
Ando wept mentally for the dignity of his race.
"He went out the window?" she asked, horrified. She ran for the nurse's station and began dialling the phone, frantically.
"We should go," Hiro said under his breath, sheathing his sword. Ando wasn't sure what had become of the pistol, and didn't think he should ask. The plaster was gone, but the dent in the ceiling wasn't. "The police will come."
"What about Mr. Mohinder?" Ando asked. They both turned to look at him, still peacefully unconscious on the bed. Hiro got a set, stubborn look on his face. He followed as Hiro stalked stiffly to the nurse's station.
"Secure floor!" he said, glaring at the nurse. "Mr. Mohinder very safe! Hah! Some secure floor!"
"I -- I'm sorry, Mr. Naga -- "
"Nakamura!" Hiro shouted. "This is not safe! You will put him somewhere safe! New name! Fake name! Different hospital! You will do it right now!"
"We can't -- "
"You will do this! He is friend of Peter Petrelli! He is friend of Nasan Petrelli! You know Nasan Petrelli?" Hiro asked, menacingly.
"Y -- yes of course..."
"Now!"
The police appeared then, and Ando watched in total admiration as Hiro pestered, berated, and shouted them into submission. By the time he stopped talking, Mohinder was already being wheeled to the back door, where an ambulance was going to take Melvin Smith to a different hospital.
"Should have done this at the start," Hiro grumbled, watching the ambulance pull away.
"How did you do that?" Ando asked.
"I just asked myself what father would do," Hiro replied. "Then I did it louder."
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
Next time, on Heroes ("Escape Velocity"):
"You watch for him to make a speech about union rights and values. When he does, I want you to tell your people that you think Nathan Petrelli is just what this city needs. I know you can make this happen for me."
Jack closed his eyes and found her. It wasn't even very hard. There she was. A yellow-haired girl well out of place but utterly unbreakable -- and her life was only just beginning.
"I have enough money," he replied. "I will go first to La Paz, then to Huatuleco. When I find her, I will contact you."
"My daughter is all I have left. I need to find her."
"I think it's time, Ma," Nathan said, leaning his elbows on the table. "I think you need to tell me about Dad's suicide."
"It's a list. A list of people like us. Dozens, maybe hundreds. It's why Sylar was there. Mohinder's in a coma because he wouldn't give this to him." "And you're carryin' it round New York for any pickpocket to lift."
He bent over her and before she could flinch back in surprise, he'd kissed her forehead, his cologne filling her nostrils. Then he was gone.
Chapter Five
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Here's a question - how are you writing Sylar? Did he really fly out the window? Because in my head I'd made a distinction between him and Peter in terms of ability, but come to think of it they could be the same.
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It's SO complicated sometimes! :D
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Brilliant! *hugs Ando* God, I'm so happy you're writing these. truly excellent. And the artwork is gorgeous.
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"I just asked myself what father would do," Hiro replied. "Then I did it louder."
BWEHEHEHEHE! Oh, Hiro...
I love that Hiro and Ando, who are basically the plucky comedy relief, are able to drive Sylar off.
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And Jack finds Claire next time! But for whom? *ominous*
I know I shouldn't whine because other shows have hiatuses too, but... whyyy April? Although this is a nice way to fill in the gap. :)
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"I just asked myself what father would do," Hiro replied. "Then I did it louder."
Oh, awesome.
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Hah. Hah, I say. :D
I am absolutely adoring the Hiatus Continuations, and rather wish that you were writing for the show. (Rather like I usually wish that you were writing the actual HP books, but that's neither here nor there. ^_~) Everything here is fantastic. Also, I have much, MUCH love for Claude, so. :D The scene with him in Odessa? The memory, I mean. That was fantastic.
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HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!
Oh man, Sam, you make me love Hiro more. ::cuddles Hiro::
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One of my friends asked me to recap the last episode for her, and I was thisclose to telling her all about Hiro and Ando working for Nathan and how Claude saved Peter from Sylar and then...oh wait. *facepalm*
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lol lol lol.
Fantastic installment, yet again. Reading these really does make the damn hiatus a lot more bearable. *anxiously awaits next chapter*
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*snicker* This is why Ando and Hiro make such a great team.
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My question is regarding Isaac -- do you just photo-manip stuff together or...?
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I was manipping stuff for Isaac, but then an artist stepped forward and offered to do the artwork, so now the images are hand-drawn for the fic. :)
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Absolutely awesome line.
Going back to the regular Heroes is going to suck after this. I will completely confuse this fic with the 'original' series. :p But hey, I really don't care 'cause this fic rocks.
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Speaking of the Haitian, I finally figured out something that was niggling at me in an earlier chapter- when Nathan arrived in Peter's apartment, he didn't have any reaction to seeing the Haitian, who tried to kidnap him earlier this season. Or maybe he was just trying to play it cool, or he was distracted by Claire. But it seemed a tiny bit odd.
But that's about the only nitpick I have. I love your take on every single character, the way I could practically see the golden tones of the Odessa cinematography in Claude's dream, Peter once again showing the resourcefulness he had at the "family brunch". It's all wonderful.
-blue
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Glad you're enjoying it!
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-blue
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*facepalm*
Thank you. Yeah, I'd forgotten about that. I'm just gonna pretend Nathan was blinded by the sunlight and didn't get a clear look :D
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I loved this line! I can see all of this taking place when April 23rd finally gets here too, great fic!!
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Love! OMG, I love Hiro so much. :D And you write him really well.
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And why they're friends and what they argue about is just lovely.
I liked the dreams, too, and Claude coming over for dinner, but mostly, just...
Hiro is FABULOUS.
Great!
(Anonymous) 2007-04-15 11:52 am (UTC)(link)Re: Great!
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As if he'd done something she'd been hoping for. Something right, for once.
Great, big AWWWW....!